


Sensory

by lunaalturtle (WASTEDink)



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crossover, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, call of honor universe, sensory prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WASTEDink/pseuds/lunaalturtle
Summary: A collection of sensory prompt fills fromCall of Honor Blog. Prompts provided by@heir-to-the-diamond-throneon Tumblr.





	1. Attic Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your bed after travelling

It has been six months since Corvo last slept in a proper bed.

Of course, it was nothing like the bed he had at Dunwall Tower, spacious with a tall wooden headboard and bed posts carved with intricate designs, piled high with pillows and blankets that would wind up on the floor while he slept anyway. There was nothing nearly as luxurious at the Hound Pits Pub, and as such the bed he was provided was small with a lumpy mattress and sheets that still stank of bleach with stains long faded, and a bed frame that groaned under his weight like it was in pain, threatening to send him to the floor the moment he laid down along with the one pillow and thin blanket he was provided. But it was something, and it was a far cry from the stone cot in his cell at Coldridge.

Corvo hadn’t bothered to take off his shoes or his coat before sinking into the mattress, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed as he planted his face into the blanket. He could smell the bleached sheets through the thin, scratchy wool, could smell the dust on the wool itself. The mattress was hard in places as if someone had shoved rocks among the filling, but Corvo couldn’t find the energy to care as he dragged himself further up the bed, only coming to rest once his feet no longer dangled off the edge.

The bed was cool, but quickly warmed up under Corvo’s body as he remained still, digging his fingers into the blanket. Normally the way his clothes and the blanket bunched up against his body would drive him mad, pressing into him in the most uncomfortable of ways, but Corvo simply let out a sigh and allowed himself to sink further into the bed. Moisture from his breath gathered on the wool and tickled his mouth and nose, dry wool scratching the ragged beard that Corvo longed to take a razor to.

The burn on Corvo’s ribs ached. The lashes on his back stung. His limbs felt like lead, each joint crying out whenever Corvo so much as twitched. His whole body was a weight, sinking into the warm bed that provided the front of his body refuge from the cool draft that permeated the attic. Hard lumps in the mattress pressed into his arms, his legs, his torso. The heat trapped in the blanket made it hard to breathe and Corvo lifted his head, blearily searching for the pillow. It was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he’d knocked it over without noticing. His head dropped back down on the bed, his cheek scratching against the wool as his eyes fluttered shut.

Six months. Six months since Corvo felt warm. Six months since his body was greeted by something other than unforgiving stone. He was here. He was safe, as safe as he could be. He no longer had to worry about being dragged off of his stone cot, dragged down the hall to the interrogation room where he would spend hours with the Lord Regent and his pet torturer. He no longer had to wake to moisture dripping from the ceilings and rats sniffing at whatever part of him dangled from the edge of the cot. He no longer had to suffer nights and days on a slab of stone that scraped at whatever part of him his clothes didn’t touch.

Corvo’s fingers curled into the wool. He took in a shuddering breath. His eyes burned.

It had been six months since Corvo last slept in a proper bed.


	2. The Dark of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The waver in a person’s voice when they’re stressed/The jittery, sick feeling when you can’t do anything

Rapid, ragged breathing filled the attic, strangled sobs breaking free from a man who desperately wanted to be silent. Corvo’s hair was hopelessly knotted from tossing and turning, and Soap watched as he hunched over with his hands in his hair, fingers tangled in the thick brown locks. A lump settled in Soap’s throat as Corvo’s body trembled on the mattress in front of him, words of comfort lodged behind a tongue that refused to cooperate.

Nights were never easy. Nights were when the nightmares came. Nights were when the fear settled in easiest, when the darkest thoughts from the deepest corners of one’s mind were the loudest. Memories that were subdued through the day came flooding in under the darkness of night, attacking when the only thing to keep one company was silence. This was something that Soap was intimately familiar with.

This was something that Corvo was intimately familiar with.

“ _ They won’t take me back _ ,” Corvo whispered. His voice cracked. The moonlight streaming in through the window illuminated his lips as they twitched over every word. “ _ They won’t take me back. I’ll kill them before they do. I’ll let them kill me before they do. _ ”

Price’s voice echoed Corvo’s words in some distant part of Soap’s mind. 

“ _ They won’t touch me. Not again. Not... _ ”—Corvo choked—“ _...Not again. _ ”

The lump grew heavier. Soap reached for Corvo. Corvo’s terrified gasp, the flinch that shook his whole body, sent Soap’s hand back into his lap. There was a whimper. Soap closed his eyes, his hands curling into fists on his thighs.

“ _ I’ll make them pay. _ ” His voice trembled, the shudder in his tone mirroring the shudder that passed through Soap’s body. His stomach twisted into a knot. “ _ I’ll make them pay. _ ”

The beginnings of a sob were cut short when one of Corvo’s hands clapped over his mouth. Soap opened his eyes, staring down in the space Corvo had put between them.

“...I’m sorry.”

Corvo’s wail was muffled behind his hand.

The way it presented itself was different, but the anguish was the same. Corvo echoed words Price had said time and time again since his return from the Gulag, his hunched body trembling the way Price’s would. Where Corvo would wail, however, Price would keep a hand firmly clasped over his mouth, his face hidden away as his shaking body remained the only thing betraying him to anyone who found him. Where Corvo would rock and flinch and whimper, Price would resist, lashing out at anyone who touched him, retreating into some dark corner alone when the terror overwhelmed him and it was either escape or fall apart in front of even the people he trusted most. Soap didn’t know with whom he shared the most traits.

The way it presented itself was different, but the helplessness Soap felt before it was the same.

“I’m sorry.” Soap wished he could banish the terror, banish the deep-rooted agony, with those two words alone. “I’m sorry.” Years of experience, observational and personal, told him that he couldn’t.

Corvo whimpered. Soap’s throat tightened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of combined two of the prompts LOL. This one turned out a lot sadder and darker than I meant it to, sorry about that.


End file.
